Our Pages
by AsianHetaliaFan
Summary: Right at the corner of the small alley, there is a bookstore. There is a bookstore. There never was a bookstore. USUK AU, in which Alfred owns a bookstore and Arthur is a freelance photographer; and they may or may not fall awkwardly and crazily in love.
1. Chapter 1

In which Alfred owns a bookstore and Arthur is a freelance photographer that also shoots for famous magazines; and they may or may not fall awkwardly and crazily in love.

**Author's Note: So finally, I've been neglecting this account but I'm here! With a brand new USUK fic, Our Pages! Please do support my fic and I would love it if you review/comment! Thank you, and enjoy this!**

Arthur hunches deeper into his snug pea coat and buries his stinging nose into the warmness that is the auburn scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hands shivers in the cold humid air, the familiar Starbucks gripped rather tightly with delicate fingers.

Arthur cusses mentally and wonders why he chose to come outside when _outside is this bloody cold._ Frankly, he lets the thought slowly wander out he doesn't ponder much over the fact as he lets his Doctor Martens tread on the crinkly pavement, breathing in curls of condensation.

Something at the corner of Arthur's eye catches his attention and he turns his head. Right at the corner of the small alley, there is a bookstore.

_There is a bookstore. There never was a bookstore._

"Our Pages", it says in big bold Italics printed on the shop's wooden sign. The shop is a dainty little one, and Arthur catches a faint whiff of scented candles and brewing coffee when he nears the store with uncertain footsteps.

Arthur closes his fingers around the cool door handle and pushes.

The inside of the bookstore smells strong of reassuring old book, wood and cinnamon (Arthur suspects that might be the candles). The small lights on the orange walls are a dirty dim yellow, and they fill up the bookstore with a strange sense of warmth, comfort even. Arthur catches dust particles hovering before his eyes, and he blows, pursing his lips and letting a small stream of air escape the space in between. The dust particles frantically prance around in the air, and Arthur lips curve slightly into a smile.

Arthur trudges along the row of sturdy shelves and the dainty little chairs that the store owner conveniently placed at the very end. He thinks he might just begin to develop a small budding affection for the store owner; he takes another sip of comfortingly bitter coffee, and finds his eyes searching for the counter, scanning past tables and plush chairs and shelves.

~xXx~

Alfred is elbow deep in paperbacks and limited editions, fingers stroking the splintered edges of _Carry Me Away_ fondly as his azure eyes rapidly speed down the page.

So focused was he when reading that he did not even bother to look up when he heard an "Excuse me" promptly directed to him.

Alfred scowls at the tiny packed letters on the pages, and hell, he could already feel himself losing concentration and slowly easing his way out of the cocoon that he was long ago wrapped in. Fuck that.

"Oi, Matt, I think I specifically told you not to disturb me when I'm reading? Get your little ass out of my store." He snaps with a certain edginess to his voice.

There is an uncomfortably deafening silence after Alfred speaks, and Alfred's senses tingle uneasily. _Did I say something wrong? Matt doesn't usually not respond._

"Excuse me." This time the line is delivered sharply and smoothly, toned with a heavy British accent that Alfred picks up.

_Oh shit. _Screw him so hard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **

**So, hello, we meet again! I'm sorry I took such a long time to upload, but exams are nearing and homework is piling. I'm already struggling to cope, but here I am with another chapter!**

**Thanks to all of you that followed, favourited and reviewed. I really appreciate it!**

**And now, for the chapter.**

Alfred slowly, very cautiously raises his head. He is though, mentally prepared for a serious whiplash by a probably extremely apoplectic old British gentleman. He even wonders for a moment if the gentleman has tea in his hand. And maybe a cane, oh wait, _definitely _a cane.

So, he finally looks.

What he sees isn't really what he expected, no, in fact, _totally _isn't what he expected, and he finds his eyes judging the man from head to toe. Blonde hair even messier than his, comfortable scarf and pea coat, Doctor Martens, Starbucks, and what was that, _a leather-clad camera?_ That's freaking ridiculous, Alfred thinks absent mindedly. Is that man a hipster or something, because there certainly is a certain level of hipster that even Alfred can recognize.

Also, he notices the man's frowning thick eyebrows. _Really, really thick eyebrows._ For a second Alfred thinks his eyes might get lost in those eyebrows, but no. His eyes travel down to meet a pair of dark olive-green ones, and he can spot the bright little golden specks sprinkled around in the irises.

_Wow, _Alfred thinks. _It's beautiful. _

And he realizes that the man is glaring at him. So he chuckles sheepishly.

"Hey."

That man doesn't even seem remotely impressed , and instead he cocks one of his thick brows impossibly high. "Huh." He scoffs.

Alfred's smile widens, and he clashes his teeth together. "Can I help you with anything? Do you want to find a book? Anything really." Inside Alfred hears his heart chattering.

The man scowls. "For a man that told me to leave his store even though I just stepped in, you don't think you owe me an apology?" He said bitterly, and shifts under his large pea coat.

Alfred immediately bolts up, and he starts to sweat. Oh shit, oh shit. He gets the man's shoulders in an iron grip, and slightly enjoys the man's shocked look on his face. "Shit, I'm really really sorry. I really didn't mean it! It's just that Matt always comes in when I'm reading and it's so annoying and I've told him not to but he still-"

"Okay, stop." The man's scowl deepens, and he steps right away from Alfred's grip. Alfred slightly pouts. "Aww, why did you do that? You ruined our moment!" He blurts without thinking, and the man turns away. Alfred can catch the tip of his ear flushing bright red, and he smiles. "Shut up. I'm leaving, goodbye and let's never see each other again."

Alfred chuckles internally; this man is adorable, _so and extremely adorable._

His hand reaches out unconsciously to grab the other's, and the man almost drops his Starbucks. He whips his head around sharply and glares at Alfred, curses under his breath just enough for Alfred's ears to catch it. Alfred grins.

"Oh, come on, tell me what you want! I'm sure you're looking for a book or something!" Alfred chips with a broad smile.

Alfred also keeps his eyes on the man as he watches him pause for a minute, thick brows furrowing even further. Frankly, Alfred really doesn't want any customer to walk out of his store unsatisfied.

In fact Alfred hasn't had one customer that stepped out of the store unhappy.

Often it is teenage girls that arrive at his little store, either searching for a book or searching for Alfred. Alfred still shudders at the haunting memories of having to hide from hormonal teenage girls screeching for his name. But Alfred also gets the normal, nice customers too, that come in to the store for a rest, or a camp by one of the plush dainty chairs placed around the bookstore, with paperback and tea in hand. Alfred adores these customers, whether they purchase the book or not, in the end, Alfred's still happy.

Arthur wrenches his hand away from Alfred's, and Alfred notices that he seems hesitant to tell.

"Do you happen to have, uh, Alan Fitzgerald?" He asks.

Alfred's eyes grow wide, has a sharp intake of air, and literally wants to twirl him around in joy. Alan Fitzegerald, he asked. Alan Fitzgerald! Alfred does a little spastic flail of success and feels the urge to prance in joy.

"_I do, my dearest, I mean it that I do. And I really, really do. _Have Alan Fitzgerald, of course." Alfred smugly quotes, as the man's eyes widen. He catches his lips curve ever so slightly, into a smile.

"You know, you're not bad." The man admits, and raises the Starbucks to his lips.

Alfred grins. He knows that he'd won this. His eyes quickly catch the large black letters scrawled across the Starbucks clutched between slender fingers.

"You're not half bad yourself, Arthur."


	3. Chapter 3

What came out of Arthur's mouth was an embarrassing little stutter. "Wha-what. How did you even." Arthur stops short, and his heart flutters. How, the bloody hell, would this stranger even know his name. Magazines, maybe? But Arthur doesn't recall doing photoshoots for magazines for the past few months.

He stares as Alfred's impossible grin grows even wider (hell, how is he even doing that, that looks physically impossible). "It's simple; I'm _magic_," Alfred stresses. Arthur gives his best to look unimpressed, and finally Alfred's face falls. "Man, come on! Okay, fine, it's on your Starbucks. You totally ruined it, man!"

Arthur really, really isn't impressed.

Arthur suddenly feels his phone buzzing in the pockets of his pea coat. He frowns, motions for Alfred to keep his mouth shut, and walks to a nearby shelf. The Caller ID almost makes his perpetual scowl etch onto his face. Arthur, really really wishes he could hurl the damned phone out of the window, but that would spoil both his BlackBerry and the store's pretty windows.

Arthur contemplates, hard. He really, really does.

"I changed my bloody phone, why do you even have my number." He snaps sullenly, shushing the excited Alfred violently. He hears the familiar annoying laugh at the other end of the phone.

"_Mon dieu_, _Arthur_, _mon ami, comment as-tu pu me blesser comme ca?(My god, Arthur, my dear, how could you be so heartless?)" _The caller drawls, feigning heartbreak. Arthur coughs, and shoots a formidable glare at Alfred, now trying to eavesdrop in the conversation but to no avail.

"_Comment est-ce que t'as eu mon numéro. Aussi, __Casse-toi, Francis.(How did you get my number. Also, fuck off, Francis.)"_ Arthur replies swiftly in French, and ignores as Alfred's eyes go wide and he starts to stare. "You…you speak French." Alfred barely whispers. Arthur rolls his eyes at him despite feeling smug inside.

"Ah, Arthur, always so cold and sharp, no?"

"Shut up and get to the point or else I'm hanging up."

"Fine. I think, I just found you a permanent job. _Je vous en prie.(You're welcome)"_

Arthur sighs, and his brows knit together in frustration. He can practically _feel _Alfred's yearn to overhear their conversation, and he dismissively swats Alfred's hand away from his phone.

"Francis, as I've repeated myself before, no. I don't want you to worry yourself about my future, so please don't."

"It's a job at a magazine, _mon ami_!"

"No."

"The pay is high!"

"No."

"It's not a normal fashion magazine this time. It's GoodWill."

As the sentence lands, Arthur tries hard to keep himself from sucking in a breath. GoodWill._GoodWill. _The lifestyle magazine that smack landed itself in the critics ranking of Top 20 Magazines, emerging proudly as number 6 on the list. The lifestyle magazine that is tucked under almost every arm, into every briefcase, every purse.

_GoodWill. _

"I can tell you're interested, Arthur," he hears Francis say smugly, "So you can come to my place by 5.00, _oui?_ Don't think I don't know you're usually free on Saturdays."

"…Fine."

Arthur quickly ends the call without a decent goodbye, and he find Alfred staring at him, wide eyed and curious. "You can speak French? Who was that? Why the expression, dude?" Alfred shoots, bouncing around.

Arthur ignores him and glances at his watch. The thin hands point to 4.45. "Shit," he mutters.

"You got to go?"

"Why do you care anyway. But yes, I need to go. It's important."

"But, what about the book? And Alan?" Alfred sounds literally heartbroken.

"I'll, er, probably return here someday." Arthur mutters, and he feels warmth rising to his cheeks. "I'm not promising you though."

Alfred's bright eyes light up instantly, and he slaps Arthur on the back, causing the man to sputter. "Yeah, right. You're definitely coming back."

**Author's Note: **

**So, Francis! Try to guess what Francis does. In this story, Francis genuinely cares about Arthur, and also incessantly flirts with him (much to Arthur's dismay). I apologise if the French is not really accurate, but that's the best I can do. (Also, any thoughts and comments on Arthur speaking French?)**

**I'm really sorry but I might not be able to post for the next 2 weeks due to big exams coming straight up, I'm really sorry!Thank you for all that reviewed and favourited and followed, there's only two measly chapters I can't believe you guys! But I really appreciate it, and do continue to do so! Any suggestions for the future chapters/ characters to introduce?**


	4. Chapter 4

Between the little bookstore and Francis's apartment are two worn streets, five cracked pavements, about nine crinkled trees, and homosexuality. But Arthur gets there anyway, trotting across the empty streets, taking gulps of sloshing hot coffee.

He reaches some time past 5 (he doesn't make an effort to be punctual with Francis), and raps his knuckles on the door in frustration. He waits for a while before he hears Francis unlocking the door, and sighs in frustration.

Francis's blooming face then appears, all stubble and a crooked smile. The crinkles around Francis's eyes deepen when he catches sight of Arthur's coffee and his small little crooks that he always takes note of, rather fondly.

"_Bonjour,mon ami."_ Francis slurs as Arthur pushes past him without much force. He smiles and silently shuts the door behind them.

Francis grabs Arthur's wrist, and as he hears the other man huff, Francis shoves him up against the pale creamy wall, pinning him in between his elbows that rested themselves at both sides of Arthur's head. Arthur's breath turns shallow and it comes in little hitches across Francis's cheeks, tickling his stubble. Francis watches as Arthur's eyes slid to stare straight into his own hooded ones, as Francis's wine-tinged breath falls gently onto his lips. "Francis," he says, in monotone, "fuck off."

_C'est complique(_It's complicated).

Francis laughs a hearty laugh, and he launches himself right off Arthur's slim figure, long blond hair brushing across the other's face. "Oh, Arthur, how you spoil everything."

Francis's little quaint apartment, one with creamy beige walls hinted with hues and shades of olive green, looked like it was a page ripped off GoodWill. Exotic carpets were laid over the beautiful flooring, frosted glass panels allowed natural light to filter in. Scruffy, tranquil, and expensive, three words that could cover everything; the little random glasses and camera film scattered over the place, the furniture that looked like it definitely wasn't a cheap piece of DIY from IKEA, and definitely, the odd peacefulness it instilled in whoever was here.

In Francis's words, _très beau_(beautiful)_._

"So," Francis hears Arthur say tartly, the man plopping himself down on the plush deep set sofa in the living room, "what about GoodWill? Wait, let me rephrase. How the hell did you manage to secure me a job at GoodWill?"

Francis does the same, brushing off invisible dust on a little armchair that seemed weak in comparison with the sofa, and settles himself down.

"Well, I believe I've…found a new friend at GoodWill." Francis exhales, earning an odd stare from Arthur. Arthur raises a doubting eyebrow, another habit Francis doesn't miss, and Francis smiles. "She's called-"

"_Elizabeta Hedervary, please just call me Elizabeta."_ _The energetic young woman with a bush of luscious brown curls tied messily into a loose ponytail gave a radiant smile, and shook Francis's hand vigorously. Francis opened his mouth to say something, but was abruptly cut off. _

"_You must be Mr. Bonnefoy, yes? The Deputy Editor of Enquirer? I was particularly impressed with your magazine's special article on feminism, it was a job very well done. A real pleasure to meet you, Mr Bonnefoy!" She spoke in a piping voice, glistening green pupils boring into Francis's skin. Francis could swear there was going to be a hole on his face. Nevertheless, the enthusiastic girl amused him. He'd never met any enthusiasts at a press conference before. Press conferences usually meant freelance journalists scribbling away on a tattered notepad, bleary eyed men that had nothing to do with the conference, and people taking advantage of free alcohol. Francis wasn't even sure how he got pressurized here; he vaguely remembered his Editor-In-Chief firing off in rapid German laced English about some boring press conference he was never going to attend, and the next thing Francis knew Francis was taking a cab on his way to the conference building. _

_Back to the girl, Elizabeta. She had stuffed a glass of cheap champagne into Francis's hand and had gotten fruit punch for herself. What was she, an underage? Why was she even here, what magazine does she work for? Francis pondered over various questions as he sipped the champagne and bit down disgust. _

_The conference was nowhere near starting, yet there were already chatty journalists and snobby finance editors and the fresh interns swarming in the conference hall lined with chairs and tables of free refreshments. _

_The girl was still standing beside Francis, casually taking a mouthful of punch. Francis surveyed her wreck of a ponytail, the slightly wrinkled suit, the crisp striped blouse, the files and notebook she carried in her arms, and the shiny badge above her suit pocket._

_Specifically the badge. Francis squinted at it with some effort, although the light glinting off the badge prevented Francis from catching anything. Finally, the girl moved, and Francis barely caught the cursive black script imprinted on the golden badge. _

_**Elizabeta Hedervary **_

_**Goodwill**_

_Francis barely contained his surprise as he stared at the girl in disbelief. She was fiddling at the ridiculous plastic flower clipped to her hair, a horrible excuse for an accessory. How could anyone like her land herself a job in GoodWill? He thought GoodWill was meant for people that actually looked professional and not people that acted like they were star-struck interns getting ready for their first press conference!_

"_Miss…Elizabeta, where did you say you worked at, again?" He prodded, delighted to earn a toothed smile from her. _

"_Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot to properly introduce myself! I work for GoodWill, Entertainment and Lifestyle Editor. You may have read the column that I'm in charge of before." She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind a visibly blushing ear. _

_Francis was genuinely impressed. GoodWill was pretty known for their Entertainment and Lifestyle column, even Francis, a picky reader, thought the column was a casual and fun read. _

"_I'm having a bit of trouble now, with the column, you know? The only two interns under my care left for a finance magazine; it's quite a struggle now, considering I don't have any helpers. Hoping to grab some interns here at the conference." She admits, and laughs light-heartedly. _

_Francis ponders over her words. She needs helpers? For the column?_

_Someone popped into Francis's mind._

**Author's note:**

**So finally, my readers, here's the chapter! I have to genuinely apologize to each and every one of you, I really didn't mean to put the fic on semi-hiatus for two weeks, but the big exams required lots of revision. But it's finally over now, so I'm back! To all of you that waited, once again, I sincerely apologize! **

**I'm pretty happy with how this chapter turned out, it was a joy writing the little press conference flashback, although it was a little hard for me to provide setting as I don't even have a job yet. But it was interesting, a first time. Do y'all like Elizabeta? I've decided to put her in as Francis's friend! More will be revealed of them soon! **

**For all those that followed and reviewed during the semi-hiatus, thank you all so much! Reviews and follows are very much appreciated and I would love it if you guys continue to read on and voice your opinions on matters!**

**Sorry for the long A/N, and thank you for reading the chapter! **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Arthur sits lazily on the bottle green sofa of his own, measly compared to Francis's but no less majestic, standing proudly as the only piece of coloured furniture in Arthur's somewhat white-washed room. Arthur sort of bought it on impulse (but really, how could anyone resist a sofa of such a beautiful, tranquil sort of green?) and the next few weeks were filled with immense regret, but soon everything and _anything_ was done on that sofa.

He idly stirs the cup of hastily made tea in his hand, washed down and made bland by excess water. He didn't even know what he was about to send into his mouth; probably the old tea leaves he'd stashed at the back of his cupboard, right behind Steel-cut Oats, olive oil, glass bottles he'd collected, hidden under thin layers of dust and memory, a long buried dream.

_He hadn't wanted to drink tea. Not ever again. _

Right now, the tea in his hands was a muddy, sullen grey-brown. Much like how he was feeling.

_Does he want the job?_

He sips a mouth of tea. Cold, tingling bitter on his tongue.

_He had screwed his first job. He was working for a small news magazine. Young, hot-headed, bursting with energy and big dreams of a fresh graduate. No wonder he was so furious when they told him to tweak his report, to suit it to the society's tastes, to not antagonize anyone, to please. They couldn't afford to antagonize anyone. _

_To please the society; was that what magazine writing was all about? To dispose of the truth and present an assuring, convincing report in its place? _

_Arthur had stormed home after a fired argument. He made himself a cup of tea that usually calmed him down, and sat down on the sofa with odd calmness. He sipped slowly, curling his legs close to his chest, curled toes scraping sofa fabric._

_His perception of the job was wrong. He shouldn't have tried to get the job so hard in the first place. He didn't feel fiery, full of spirit anymore. He felt sick. _

_Tears ran slowly down his face and dripped into the tea._

Arthur blinks, trying to bury the memory away. He gets another mouthful of tea, and tries to rearrange the thoughts in his mind.

But it was GoodWill. How could he, or anyone, refuse a job offer from GoodWill? Even he, one that wanders around the edges of the industry, knew that GoodWill was the cream of the crop. Quality articles, respected editors, absolutely stunning photography. But that was not it yet.

As soon as Arthur started reading GoodWill, he made it a habit to stop at the pages where photography was at its very best. Images of scenery, minimalistic rooms, people. A simple tree could be so breath taking, the mysterious forests so alluring, the loose wrinkles on a man's face a string of worries and woes mellowed by time. Maybe that was what got Arthur into photography. It was a way to let the viewers supply their own adjectives for what they perceive, where you didn't have a restraining cookie cutter.

If he worked under Elizabeta, he would be given a chance to meet the best and maybe even work with the best. He would finally have a stage to express himself through his photography, to show the world little things that no one would ever, ever learn how to appreciate. Simply put: he yearns, painfully.

Arthur's heart pumps in his chest and against his ribcage, aching with every breath, full of desire and want, covering multiple dreams yet to be fulfilled, high expectations yet to be met.

He finishes the tea, and places the tea cup gently on the coffee table. Oversized sweats riding dangerously low on slim hips, he walks over to his phone, and types quickly, eyes fixated on the small screen behind a pair of smaller black framed glasses. He isn't going to disappoint himself, not like before.

_To: Francis_

_From: Arthur_

_I want to meet Elizabeta. _

**A/N:**

**Hello everyone! Another measly little chapter with not much action going on, I really have to apologize if you guys find this chapter boring, and although I had a small debate with myself, I came to the conclusion that the chapter was essential. I wanted to let you guys know more about Arthur and his backstory, thus the draggy chapter. To all those that read or followed or reviewed the story, thanks a bunch!**

**;u; you guys probably don't know but going through reviews are like the little tiny piece of heaven for me .,…**

**Thank you guys for reading once again, and I hope you guys continue to do so in the future! **

**(Also promising Arthur/Alfred interaction in the next chapter *gurgles*)**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Arthur, Alfred, or any of the Hetalia characters in the story, though I wish I did. Neither do I own Breaking Dawn and Fifty Shades of Gray (no literally I do not own the books), and in no means do I wish to degrade the books in my fic;it is purely Alfred's opinion of the books and meant for entertainment purposes. Lastly and sadly I do not own the double cream donuts that Alfred made, and that makes me immensely emotional and heartbroken.

Arthur wakes up early in the morning, to the sunlight that swims through the window glass and basks him in a golden hue.

He has slept well.

Well as in without the frequent claustrophobic darkness that would envelope him in his dreams, but well as in the lush greenery he'd seen, the richness of the soil he could almost smell, well as in the tree-lined river that sparkled in the autumn sun. Of scenery he was about to capture in his photos. _The future,_as Eleanor Roosevelt had once said, _belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dream._

Arthur rubs the pinkness out of his eyes and smiles to himself as he hastily gets out of his quilt and -

"_Bloody damn hell I shouldn't have worn only underwear to bed bloody hell,"_he swearsas his eyes quickly scan his bedroom for some sweatpants,_any _sweatpants. He catches a dull grey pair lying innocently on his computer table, and makes a mad scramble for it, legs barely steady while shivering in the chill of the morning air.

As he puts his legs through the materialized warmth awkwardly with a hand, the other hand reaches blindly to grasp the phone on the table.

_Did Francis reply?_

Plopping down on the leather seat strategically placed near him, his thumb scrolls through his notifications half-heartedly, considering how they are usually spam.

_Gmail: Do you want a chance to have a free –_

_Delete._

_Messages: Call the number if you want to have a good time at-_

_Delete._

_Gmail: Want to enlarge your –_

_Oh bloody hell._

_Messages: Bonjour, mon sucre d'orge (my barley sugar), so-_

_What the hell, is this a bloody food advert- Oh wait._

Arthur's thumb hovers midair, faltering, then he opens the message.

_Bonjour, mon sucre d'orge(my barley sugar), so I spoke to Elizabeta, and she was pleased to hear from you. Give her a call and set a date. Here's her number,732-757-2923_. _Elizabeta is oddly excited to meet you, mon ami._

_XOXOXOXO,_

_Francis_

Arthur draws in a breath, feeling the air rush rapidly to fill his lungs, and releases it slowly. He puts his phone away, and stares at his fingers absent-mindedly, trying to clear the wild fragmented thoughts swarming his mind.

Arthur actually feels scared of the future. He's never been this way before; he prides himself in being optimistic, but somehow this time, strangely, he succumbs to fear and uncertainty. _What if Elizabetawillbe disappointed because heisn'ta famous photographer with, like, prizes or award-winning photos, or-_

_Why the damn hellisit that, only after did the consequences of his actions dawn on him?_

He pinches his temples painfully, white knuckles clenching and unclenching. Being scared makes him feel vulnerable, and he doesn't like it, at all.

He needs something. Coffee, coffee, that's right, he needs coffee. Some overpriced Starbucks should do the trick. Scrambling out of his seat, he shrugs on a invitingly warm bubble jacket over the wrinkled loose band t shirt he'd wrinkled in sleep, and, walking into the living room, stuffs his feet hastily into track shoes lying haphazardly on the marble flooring, shoelaces undone and having an affair, which Arthur almost trips over when he rushes for the door.

Stuffing his pink freezing hands into the pockets along with jangling keys, Arthur leaves. To caffeine, and beyond.

Xxxxxx

Alfred had woken up early to open the shop, partly because it was Monday and there were going to be extra customers that came in to grab books last minute in the morning, and partly because he is still waiting.

He'd even brought extra donuts with double cream (that he'd made in the weekends) to provide himself with enough energy to actually last a Monday. Because _no one, no one lastsa Monday. _

Alfred suffers the fate of sitting by the counter, watching bleary eyed and overwhelmed by morning sickness as three blondes with oddly short jean skirts tried to choose over whether to buy 'Breaking Dawn' or, as a dare, 'Fifty Shades Of Grey', the book that Alfred had reluctantly bought in small batches, red-faced, and stuffed them at the very back of the shelves in Adult Fiction. Because they always got sold out, fast. He didn't even know how people managed to find the book; he didn't even _know_ why there was such overwhelming response from housewives.

He diverts his attention back to the girls and narrows his eyes.

The girls apparently found Fifty Shades Of Gray and was digging in their bag for money; Alfred puts his head between his hands and lets out an audible groan.

Xxxxxx

Arthur wanders down the street, empty handed and overwhelmed by a sense of self-pity.

"I actually forgot to bring money." Muttering, he puffs curls of condensation and stares down at his moving sneakers.

When he finally realizes he doesn't know where he's heading, he is nearing a small alley. A _very familiar small alley._

And Arthur spots the little bookstore again, a dim orange hue in the grey morning cold. Arthur hesitates, then makes up his mind and heads for it.

Xxxxxx

The girls had left quite some time ago, and Alfred's body sags with defeat from the aftershock. One of them had tried to flirt, and Alfred had smiled bleakly at her and tried to chase her off by giving her a small discount on the book. The girls had giggled while leaving the shop.

As he prepares himself for a 1 minute nap, he hears the door open. Alfred looks up weary-eyed, but suddenly he glows with delight.

It's the little British hipster dude that had visited days ago!

"Hey." Alfred calls out, and he sees Arthur turn to look at him with a ridiculed expression.

Alfred's mouth quirks into a smile.

Arthur scowls. "Hello."

Alfred feels a little squeal in his heart, because the man still has the same level of adorable. He deepens his smile, and props his head on his hands. "See," he said smugly, "I told you you would come back, Mr Arthur."

He laughs as Arthur sputters and prepares a retort. Then he takes a moment to judge Arthur's clothing.

"Hey, you look like you came out in a rush, dude." Alfred pipes.

Arthur actually looks dejected for a second. "I didn't eat breakfast. And I forgot to bring money because, yes, indeed, Mr Magician, I did come out in a rush." Arthur walks to a nearby chair and sits down, huffing, burying his face in his hands.

Alfred chuckles as his hand reaches for his duffel, disappear inside for a moment, then re-emerge with two creamy donuts stuffed in a Ziploc. Sliding down from his chair, he walks over to Arthur and pats him softly on his bubble jacket, then sets the donuts in Arthur's lap.

Arthur looks up at him, puzzled and frowning slightly, then stares at the donuts in his lap. "Wha- what are you doing? Are you trying to tempt me now?" He sounds genuinely distressed; Alfred wants to give the poor man a big hug.

"Nah. Have these, the rather heroic me brought extra breakfast today." Alfred offers with a faint smile, and picks up the bag from Arthur's lap, setting it on his hand. Their fingers brush, and Arthur notices, with burning cheeks, that Alfred's fingers are warm.

"Come on, ya poor soul."

Arthur looks at him in disbelief, hesitant. "I…" His protest dribbles off, and upon Alfred's insistent grin, groans. "Thank you then, I guess." He opens the bag with frightening speed and stuffs part of the donut into his mouth.

He chews.

It's stupidly good, he thinks as his hands reach for another bite.

Alfred looks at Arthur endearingly as the man chews, observing his face intently. Arthur notices, and flushes, as Alfred smiles at him.

"It's good, isn't it? I made it myself."

Arthur looks away. " It's…adequate."

"Adequate my ass! It's delicious!" Alfred snorts before giving Arthur a hard pat on the back, and almost twirls back to the counter table, settling down.

"So, Arthur, I'm guessing you came because you missed me, but you're apparently in denial stage. So, what brings you here, excluding the fact that you wanted to see me again?" He asks, oozing with pride as the man finishes the remains of the donuts, crumbs and whatnot.

Arthur's cheeks turn red (Alfred secretly thinks it's freaking adorable), and he hesitates.

"I, er, have things on my mind." He blurts.

Alfred laughs. "Well then, I should be flattered because you came to reside in my little den! How can I be of any assistance?"

"I didn't expect you to provide assistance, actually." Arthur pops out of the chair, and grabs a random book lying around on a shelf, then settles down again, opening the book and flipping the pages idly.

"Heh, you've underestimated me. Are you facing, like, any problems or something? Is it…relationship wise?"

"Oh hell no."

"Money wise then?"

"No."

"Living wise? Are you actually a secret hobo or something?"

"I don't even know how you came to that conclusion."

Alfred sighs, and gives Arthur a crinkly smile. "Well then, okay, I might not be of much help to you."

Arthur gives him a brief smile. "It's okay." He shuts the book and places it gently back on the shelf.

There is a moment of silence, as Alfred gazes at Arthur with a unreadable look.

"But, _just know, when you truly want success, you'll never give up on it. No matter how bad the situation might get. Because, you know, great things only happen to those who get off their asses and actually do anything to make it happen_." Alfred suddenly chirps with a sunny smile.

Arthur's back tenses, and he stares down at the fabric of the sweatpants.

Something clicks inside his mind.

He'd been stupid, so stupid.

_Why did he ever need to doubt himself?_

He stands up, walks over to the counter, and returns the Ziploc bag to Alfred. Alfred grins that impossible grin at him again, and takes the bag from Arthur, fingers brushing unconsciously across Arthur's in the process yet again.

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah, probably."

"That's so soon!"

Arthur scowls slightly at Alfred again, but Alfred notices the sparkle in his eyes. He laughs, and pats Arthur on the shoulders.

Arthur huffs, and walks towards the door. His fingers reach for the handle, and he hesitates, back to Alfred.

"Thank you, Alfred."

Alfred smiles.

"No problem. Oh, and take the donuts as an incentive to come back again."

A/N:

Hello readers, I bet y'all weren't expecting this chapter to happen, because I put it on semi-hiatus. But I felt incredibly guilty for not updating, thus I pushed studying away for one night and churned out a chapter for you guys. (Also, so incredibly sorry for putting it on semi-hiatus! Please please forgive me for doing so!)

This chapter was extremely fun to write, and guess who's coming for Alfred's delicious cream donuts again~ hohohoho

Also, guys, I got a beta reader, DancingChestnut! She's a friend of mine in real life, and very childish and stubborn but still adorable. Make sure to check out her fanfiction if you are a LOTR fan because she is and she writes good stuff I tell you. Very good stuff that makes my toes curl with envy.

Okay then, I shall cease being naggy for now. Thank you so much for reading the chapter, and if you liked it / had problems with it, remember to review and tell me about what you feel! Thank you to all that followed and favourited too, I appreciate it lots and lots!

Bye for now!


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